


Watching Over Me

by OUATLovr



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their plan to live separate lives lasted four days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Over Me

"I would like to stay with you tonight. Not for appearances, or politics, or because you are my wife. Just...to watch over you while you sleep. I could stay here," he gestured to the divan in front of her, and she raised an eyebrow, "happily."

The words were spoken with such honesty, so gently that Mary was afraid her soul might break to hear them, or perhaps to hear the way they were spoken, as if she were a fragile creature Francis hoped to heal. Some part of her was still grateful that Francis would willingly spend his nights alone on the divan just to be near her, and so she stood, feeling as if it took all of her courage to remove her fingers from Stirling's fur for long enough to answer.

"I would like that."

Another part of her, the completely irrational, fearful part, was terrified that first night, despite how illogical, that she would find herself on the floor once more, trapped beneath a stronger body, unable to fight back...

She awoke some time during the night, sweating and writhing in her bed, and rather surprised that her nightmares had caused no sound. Francis woke at the slightest bit of noise, she had noticed, and, when she glanced over at him, just visible through the early morning light filtering in through the window, she found him sound asleep on the divan.

Stirling lay just beneath his feet, head resting against Francis' outstretched hand, where he had apparently been petting the dog, earlier. Some part of her wondered if the action had been conscious or not, if her dog truly knew more about herself than she did.

* * *

The nights passed in that way for some time. It was not easy, after Greer's disappearance, and, though she could not say she was not uneasy by the sight of man in her bedchambers while she slept, she was glad not to be alone.

Francis, for his part, never once complained about the arrangement, though she knew it was not ideal.

In fact, there were some nights when he seemed rather happy with the prospect of just being near her. His face would light up when she opened her door to allow him inside, and he would quickly move to the other side of the room without touching her. He would ask her if she was all right every time he entered, and she would smile and give him a hesitant nod. Then he stoked the fire and curled up on the divan.

Some nights, like that first, Mary would lay awake in bed, uneasy and unable to sleep, and she would turn to look at her husband, to watch him while he slept, his easy breaths the only sounds in the room besides the crackling of the fire.

And, after some time, the sound was a comfort.

* * *

"It means a lot to me that you're happy, sleeping here, on this divan, night after night. Near me, but not so close that I feel uneasy." Her voice shook as she spoke, gathering her courage.

And Francis smiled, as widely as he had the night she agreed to marry him. The memory pulled painfully at her.

"We'll do things in our own time, my love." She tried to pretend that the way he said those words, _my love_ , didn't affect her. "If you want me to Sewell here for the rest of the year, I don't object." And he lay down then, perfectly content.

"Yes, well, it seems rather silly. When there's a perfectly good goose-feather bed right here," she ran her hands over the blankets, if only to disguise the awkward way she stumbled over the words.

Francis glanced up sharply in surprise, warily sitting up. "You mean tonight?" He clarified, eying her as though she were a wolf about to strike.

Mary swallowed that the words, at all the implications behind them, finding that her tongue was tied in so many knots she could hardly remember the nervous pain in her stomach as she answered, "Un-unless you've grown fond of..."

And Francis calmly walked towards her. She found herself no longer caring that he eyed her like a frightened woodland creature, suddenly glad for the comfort even that brought.

As he neared the bed, she realized he might want more from her. Might have thought that was what she meant, and quickly clarified. "I...only meant for us to sleep."

She invited him into her bed then, though with the harsh condition that they would only sleep. When she said the words, sounding pathetically, to her mind, like a frightened deer, Francis only smiled and nodded. "Of course."

As though it were obvious. As though he wanted nothing more than to sleep beside her.

And perhaps he did.

His loud breaths, though certainly not so loud, woke her from the nightmares some time later.

Just give me time, she had once told him. Now, lying beside him in bed and listening to the startling sound of his steady breaths, she wasn't sure that even time would heal her wounds, stop her nightmares.

The nightmares came that night, stronger than ever, and she awoke, gasping in terror and sliding quickly away from Francis, off the bed and over to the divan he had been inhabiting until now.

"Mary?" he whispered groggily, and she found herself liking the fact that hers was the first name from his lips, even as he was pulled from sleep.

"I'm sorry," she said by way of explanation, feeling guilty for once more interrupting his sleep like this. "I couldn't bear it...The sound of a man's breath, next to me."

She didn't know why she expected him to be angry, but she was glad when he was not, when he only gazed upon her with such patience and love in his eyes.

"Let me help you," Francis pleaded, standing then and throwing the bed sheets aside.

Mary gulped. "There's nothing you can do," she insisted, because the words were safe.

Francis shook his head stubbornly. "I can tell you that what happened was a nightmare," he said, ignoring her words. "But the nightmare is over." And then he was holding his arms out for her, and ,for the first time since what had happened, she found herself moving to embrace him quite happily.

He held her in his arms then, gently and loose enough that she knew she could easily pull away, and, for the first time in a lone while, she realized she had missed this. Being held in Francis' arms and not caring about the world around them.

And when he pulled away, reaching for a blanket at the end of the bed and returning to his vigil on the divan, she found that she missed his touch, craved for it, and yet loathed the thought of it at the same time.

* * *

Then she realized that, despite their night together, despite everything they did in an attempt to fix things, during which her husband had been impossibly kind, it would never work between them. Despite what they did, no matter how many nights Francis insisted that he was happy to simply lay on the divan and crick his neck in the morning, she could not do this to him.

Couldn't force him to live his life without intimacy, without more happiness than what could be elicited at the mere thought of being with her. He claimed that he would wait, and she knew that he would, but she feared that he might wait forever, and she couldn't bear the thought.

The thought of his touch, however gentle, still terrified her, and she knew that, much as she craved it, she might never want it.

She wanted him to find happiness, even if she could not. Because, despite her cruel words, despite his cruel words, she loved him, and she could not in right conscience force him to live a life that she was no longer sure she wanted to live.

So she told him to leave her to the loneliness he had attempted to assuage, to make his own life with a woman who could want him in the way that he wanted Mary, who could make him happy.

His eyes shifted to her, sad with compassion, but at the same time filled with hurt. Betrayed that, after everything they had done, after all the headway they had made, she was still telling him that she didn't want him to try.

And if there were tears in his eyes when he left her bedchambers that night, if her room felt oddly cold and lonely without his soothing presence, and if she sobbed into her pillow for long hours after, as she attempted to convince herself that this was the right thing for Francis, well, Stirling was the only one to witness it, and she knew that he would not tell a soul.

* * *

Her plan to live separate lives, Francis' happy whilst Mary's was simply alone, lasted four days.

She should have known better, should have known Francis was too stubborn to listen to what she believed was common sense, but then, her thoughts were not entirely in the right frame of mind.

The first day, it caused a stirring at Court, and the nobles whispered as much as the servants when Francis entered the throne room, ignoring his wife to instead make his way to Lola and whisper in her ear.

He wouldn't meet Mary's eyes as he asked Lola to accompany him to the break of fast. Lola started, glancing up in surprise before taking his arm with a hesitant look back at Mary. Conde glanced back at Mary, eyes darkening, but, before he could reach her, Bash was there.

The King's Deputy, presumably after having seen the look on Francis' face, for he offered his arm quickly.

"Would you allow me to escort you to breakfast?" Bash asked, a sympathy in his voice that she hated, that she had convinced herself that she didn't want or need.

Kenny looked surprised, and then a little hurt, that Bash went straight to Mary without bothering to think of her, but then Claude was there, demanding that she sit with Jenna for the meal, taken in the main parlor among the nobles today, as it was so close to the end of Michaelmas.

Mary took the proffered arm, daintily, and promised herself that she was not saddened by Francis' resolve to move on. After all, she had been the one to insist that he did so, and she was glad that he had listened to her.

The promises were just as much lies as when she had told Francis that they would always be honest with each other, would always love each other, after returning with Catherine to the palace.

Oh, they still spoke, and Mary still sat upon the throne and wore the crown of France, but there was no mistake in the eyes of the nobles and the servants alike. Francis had turned his eyes elsewhere, and his Queen was left ruined by it.

Even Catherine seemed surprised, though her sympathetic and somewhat disapproving eyes were never far from the young couple.

Mary spent the day with Kenna and Claude, attempting to change the direction of their conversations every few minutes, as they always veered to the one subject that was not up for discussion, however innocently it was always presented.

That night, as she lay awake, alone and very conscious of it, Mary could not help but wonder if Francis had sought comfort in the arms of his child's mother, and if he had finally found the joy she wished for him in it.

The second day was not easier, as she had thought it would be.

She had thought that her uneasiness was simply because she was still unused to the idea, but when Francis walked into the throne room with Lola on his arm, neither meeting Mary's eyes, she could feel the stirrings of jealousy deep within her gut, and her words to Francis be damned.

There was a festival that day, and the nobles all went to the lake for a grand luncheon.

Francis formally asked Lola if she would accompany him, and Lola, though once more hesitant, accepted. She glanced back at Mary once again, as though seeking permission, and Mary gave her an encouraging smile.

Their child remained at the castle that day, and so did Mary.

She almost went to visit the little boy, but when she stood outside the door, staring in at the young nanny holding the child, Mary reminded herself that she had convinced Francis to lead separate lives, and she couldn't very well renege on her ideas now.

The third day, all could see the strain between the young king and his queen, though none dared to address it.

It was a day of judgment, where Francis sat on the throne by his queen and pronounced judgment on the criminals brought from the dungeons.

Mary felt that there was more judging being done against the Queen of France than the prisoners.

* * *

On the fourth night, he returned to her door, looking every inch the rejected puppy that Stirling had cast aside last winter.

"Mary," he said her name, like chocolate on his lips, when she accidentally opened the door at his knock.

She attempted to shut it again, and damn the whispers of the servants, but he stuck his hand through, shaking slightly but insistent.

She didn't dare shut the door on him then, because she could not bear the thought of harming him.

"May I come in, Mary?" he asked gently, voice no louder than a soft mewl, and Mary found that it killed a part of her, deep inside, to refuse him.

"I...do not think that would be wise," she answered finally, hating the way her voice shook as she spoke.

"I...Mary...just for a moment," he pleaded. "Please, I just need to know that you are all right."

"Francis..." she tried again. Then, "Lola will be missing you. Go."

And he blanched, stared at her with such hurt in his eyes that she instantly regretted the words, but there was no taking them back now. Instead, she shut the door, and found that, this time, his hand was not there to stop her.

When she awoke in the morning, without servants to help dress her, for she no longer could stand the feel of their hands on her body, on her clothes, she thought the silence outside her door was rather unnerving.

Usually, Kenna or Lola was there, or Greer...oh, how she missed Greer, waiting to tell her all the gossip of the previous night before the morning fast was even broken. And if not them, then a servant, come to remind her of her morning duties.

The impossible silence beyond made her flinch, her thoughts returning to that fateful night when her guards had not been there to protect her door, to stand vigilantly outside it and protect her.

Reaching for her robes, Mary wrapped them protectively around her before pulling Stirling up and making him walk in front of her. Surprisingly, for the dog had a very keen ear, her pet did not seem at all disturbed by the silence out in the hall.

Francis nearly toppled over as the door pushed inward, and Mary blinked in surprise at the sight of him, still in the clothes he'd worn last night, blinking sleep from his eyes as he glanced up at her. His disheveled appearance made something within her twist uncomfortably, and she swallowed hard, resisting the urge to reach forward and brush the hair from his eyes.

"Did you sleep out here all night?" she asked instead, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice, throat sore and achy.

Francis nodded, almost shyly, and the innocent smile he awarded her then brought her painfully back to the memory of their first kiss, of when she had pronounced herself, "just a girl."

"I wanted to keep watch over you, while you slept," he replied, and she didn't have an answer for that.

It was then that she realized she had not had a single nightmare, during the night.

She told herself it was a coincidence.

He stood, slowly, as if he were afraid that any quick movement might frighten her, straightening his clothing and pulling his leather jerkin back on, having clearly used it for a pillow during the night.

"The servants will certainly have something to talk about today," Francis quipped, and Mary found herself smiling despite it all, though she didn't bother to answer.

Francis held out his arm then, and Mary's breath caught in her throat.

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to breakfast?" he asked quietly.

And Mary, much as it pained her to do so, simply shook her head. And pretended to ignore the look of sadness that flashed across Francis' face before he buried it as deep as she suspected she buried her own emotions.

* * *

The nights passed much like this for some time, with Francis maintaining his guard outside her door. Because she would not let him in, no matter how pitiful he looked, sleeping against her door like that, she knew the servants whispered about it, gossiped amongst themselves and the nobles alike.

But Francis, it seemed, would not be deterred, no matter how many hurtful comments surrounded them by his actions.

She brought him out a blanket the second night, finding him curled up with his head leaning against one side of the doorframe and his feet propped up against the other.

Smiling, she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and he stirred. Mary froze, unable to breathe as he leaned into her touch and whispered, " _Mary..._ " once, desperately.

She quickly disappeared inside her room.

The third night, she opened the door after changing into her nightgown, finding him having already settled for the night as the guards' shift changed.

"Go to your own chambers tonight, Francis," she implored, and, what she didn't say, "Go to your own life."

He didn't move, only smiled at her and asked that she shut the door, so that he might finish his conversation with the guards about topics that were, apparently, "not for a noble lady's ears."

* * *

"May I please come in, Mary?" he asked, for the hundredth time, as he asked each night, and Mary, despite her resolve, opened the door just wide enough for him to slip past.

He grinned, like a child on Michaelmas, and she could not begrudge him that. As he entered the room, he breathed in a deep sigh, as if the very smell brought back pleasant memories, though, the only times he had slept in this particular room had been those when Mary was too frightened to sleep in their own room, recently.

He moved towards the bed, eyes wide and tired, and Mary froze, whole body clenching as she eyed him.

"I...Francis," she called out loudly, and something about her tone, perhaps the hidden desperation in it, caused him to turn around, blue eyes narrowing in concern.

"I...could you sleep on the divan tonight?" she hated how weak she must have sounded then, but Francis, though his eyes saddened minutely, only smiled and moved over to the bed without another word.

"I'd be happy to," he said softly, trying to meet her eyes, but she found that she couldn't quite look at him.

It scared that his words were so sincere, that he seemed genuinely happy to do just that if it pleased her.

He slept on the divan once more after that, and Mary found that she had missed his soothing presence in her room.

Stirling yipped happily, jumping onto the divan alongside him, and Francis, though she knew he disliked waking in the morning to the feel of Stirling's fur all over his bedclothes, smiled and held the dog close.

Mary had only a moment to be jealous, to wish that he was holding her instead, before she moved quickly back to her bed and pretended to be asleep.

She had a feeling that Francis was pretending, as well. Sometimes, during the night, she could feel his eyes on her, watching her as he thought she slept but it was never frightening, as she imagined, in her state of mind at night, it should be.

Instead, it was comforting, to know that someone was looking out for her.

* * *

Things continued in that fashion for some time, too long. Though he slept in her room during the nights, their relationship did not progress beyond that. In the mornings, Mary still refused to accompany him to breakfast, still refused to display affection in public, still refused to allow him to comfort her. Until Francis convinced her that there would be, could be, no other woman that he might find happiness with, not any more.

It began early in the morning, when the servants barged in only to find Francis pulling his shirt on, Mary turned away and fiddling with the strings of her dress as she waited to accompany him.

She blushed when the servant saw them, and wondered when was the last time she had done so.

She honestly could not remember.

The day passed slowly, and every second that Mary spent further in Francis' presence, she felt as if she was drowning. He didn't seem to notice, sending her reassuring smiles throughout the day. And she watched him, watched the way he faked that smile throughout the day, the tenseness of his shoulders, the sadness in his eyes every time he glanced her way, clearly thinking she couldn't see.

And that night, when he opened the door to her rooms and she jumped a little, she found that she could not less this continue.

"Please, Francis, go be with Lola tonight," Mary pleaded, watching the way he tossed and turned on the divan, the sofa just a bit too short for him, though she had never truly noticed it before.

Francis glanced up in surprise. "Am I disturbing you?" he asked softly.

She fidgeted with her blankets, biting down hard on her lower lip. "No," she finally answered, because, here, at least, they did not need to lie to each other.

Francis swallowed. "Mary, I'm all right. I quite like this couch."

"Francis, please. You cannot possibly be comfortable sleeping like that, every night. A King should not have a bent neck," Mary protested, and Francis sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. He watched her carefully, eyes searching, and she found that, for the first time in a long time, she could meet his gaze.

"I never slept with Lola again," he whispered then, though the words were like a thunderclap in the silent room. Even Stirling was awake now, lazy eyes watching the proceedings above him with a look that Mary could only describe as amused. "Not even after you told me to."

She wondered how often Stirling inwardly laughed at their antics, at the awkwardness between the two of them.

Then she blinked, realizing what Francis had said. "Wh...What?"

"Mary," he whispered softly, and she couldn't abide by the affection in his voice, the thickness there. Everything that it said.

"Who was it?" she asked finally. "Some other darling of the Court? Or a servant?" she could not say she would be particularly displeased if it did happen to be a servant whom Francis had been with those three nights. So long as he was with someone, not alone.

And the soulful look he sent her way told her everything Mary didn't want to hear before Francis finally answered, "Mary...it's only ever been you. Since the wedding."

"You idiot!" she cried out then, and she found herself wishing, for the first time since...the incident...that he was lying beside her in the bed, so that she might slap him for his foolishness. "We were supposed to lead separate lives. To forget each other."

And Francis stood, moved closer, but not too close, as if he instinctively knew the distance that would frighten her.

"Mary...I could never just forget you. I know you wanted us to live separate lives, so I tried, for you, because it was what you wanted. But I know that I can't. I can't stop thinking of you, even when we're apart. All I want is to be near you," his voice wavered then, "and, if it is too painful for you to view me as anything more than your protector in the night, then I shall be quite content to end my days as such."

And she let him into her bed that night, patting the place beside her, though at first, it was only to sleep.

* * *

When she lay beside him in her bed, sometime later, because, despite everything, he could not be persuaded to return to his own, she could not stop the tears that filled her eyes, though she refused to spill them. For his sake.

The physicians, the best that money and fear of Catherine could buy, regretfully insisted that Francis would be dead by morning. That they had tried everything and there was nothing left to do but utter hopeless goodbyes.

So she turned the physicians away, turned away even Catherine and the servants, and lay in the privacy of her bed with her husband, hand clutching desperately to his own.

"Do you..." he coughed, and she pretended not to be alarmed by it, "do you forgive me?" he choked out, one of the last of his breaths, and tears stung at his impossible blue eyes. "For..."

And Mary leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. "Of course, Francis," she whispered, and was surprised to hear the truth in it.

Francis breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I'm...glad," he said finally, and she could hear the relief in the words.

"Francis, please," she begged, "look at me."

And he did, unblinking, staring. As if resolved to memorize every feature before he passed.

And Mary stared back, unaware of the words she spoke, even as they left her mouth. She knew they were hopeless pleas, whatever she said, and she saw, through the reflection in Francis' shining eyes, that they were useless.

She watched silently as blood trailed from his ears, slowly, a steady trickle, even as the last breath left his body, though his love-filled eyes never left hers.

"Please, Francis," she heard herself saying, though the words were hollow to her own ears, "one of year of marriage. It isn't enough."

It wasn't, not one scant year, not after everything that had happened between them, and she found herself wishing that, despite what had happened to her, to them, despite how difficult it had been to break down her walls for Francis' sake, she had not wasted so much of her short time with her husband.

"The King is dead!" she heard a voice shout out behind her, as the door to her bedchambers flew open, and she struggled not to flinch at the commotion.

The tears fell then, for she no longer had to hold them back for Francis' sake.


End file.
